The Rest of the Story

Home now, and pictures ready. I'll start with the Candy Kitchen, since we did that first. Had lunch there. The coolest thing? The "phosphates." I know I've read books where the kids had phosphates, but I never thought I'd get the chance to order a Cherry Fizz myself. Until the Candy Kitchen.

George and Thelma Nopoulos make all their own sodas with their own syrup, and the choices range from lemon and root beer to Green River (lemon-lime, and a beautiful shade of green) and Oddball (a mix of the first 7 choices).

The soda fountain has been a fixture in town for over 3 generations. And as folks in Wilton can attest, many grew up there. It was where the kids hung out before television and cars took them farther afield. They'd come right over after school, stay til supper, go home for dinner, and come right back. Just the place for Andy Hardy and his friends.

Knowing I was a romance writer, Thelma was eager to tout the the restaurant as town matchmaker. She showed me a dozen or more pictures of people who met their spouses there, and one even dropped by for a visit. Carla and Bourke Thurston have been married for 50 years now. Here's their names scratched into the side of one of the wooden booths, circa 1956 or 7. It's a crappy picture, I know, but if you look closely, you can see the "C" of Carla's name and Bourke's below it.

What a great tribute to the Nopoulos's, their warmth and hospitality. Not to mention their generosity. When my sundae (made with George's homemade ice cream) melted because I was talking to the Thurstons, Thelma plopped another at my place. Of course, I had to take a bite. Out of politeness if nothing else...

Overstuffed with food and memories, we left the Candy Kitchen and went on to the real work of the day--harvesting corn.

Frank Townsend and his partner, Rick, have 8000 acres in feed corn and soybeans. They had a wet spring, so planting was late, which meant they were still harvesting late in November. Right now, their days were exhausting--early morning wake ups and going until midnight some days. Hard but necessary because they have to get the crop in before the first snowfall.

It was freezing that day, the kind of cold exacerbated by a knife-blade wind, so I was happy to sit in the cab of a pickup until they finished up with one field.

The combines--John Deere green all--are big monsters plow through the rows and vomit up corn in a flush of yellow into a massive bin.

I couldn't appreciate how monstrous they were, though, until I was sitting in one. Looking down at the stubs--the torpedo-like fingers that scoop in the stalks--felt like I was riding atop a piece of war machinery. Hacking down those stalks, feeding them to the razor sharp shuckers. Very cool. Very lethal, too. Couldn't help thinking that would be a neat way to kill someone. Hack an arm off. Skin them alive. And where better to hide a body than a corn field? Especially the dried up, brownish-yellow feed corn fields, which in themselves look like a Halloween set piece. Gruesome? Oh, yeah. But hey, someone's gotta come up with this stuff else there'd be no suspense stories. Right?

Lucky for me, I didn't have to stay until midnight. I got a taste of what this part of farming is like, and could go back to my comfortable house, my knitting, and my TV--way before midnight. But my respect for what these guys do is way up. Next time I hear some actor complaining about the hard work they do, I'll remember Frank and Rick.

The next day, I did a talk and book signing back at Bandag in Muscatine. Had a wonderful turnout and enjoyed meeting everyone. A special shout-out to Pam Collins, the Muscatine librarian who trekked over to see me. I talked up the RWA convention, so I hope to see her there at some point.

My Iowa adventure has come to an end, now, and I'm back home. Can't say enough good things about the people I met in Muscatine and Wilton and roundabout. I've already got a list of things I missed, so I'll have to go back.

But maybe I'll wait for the summer...

We're Here Because We're Here Because We're...

The trip to Iowa was filled with interesting things. We drove north through most of Missouri and then into southern Iowa on a 4-lane highway (2 lanes each direction), so we passed through a lot of small towns and out into country. Miles and miles of farmland--beef (black Angus) and dairy (Herefords* mostly) cattle, sheep, and acres and acres of corn. If you ever thought that Big Corn was a myth, just drive through this part of the Midwest.


Between the ubiquitous corn syrup in nearly all processed foods to the quest for biofuel, corn is king here. It may be November but in Iowa they're still harvesting. We saw the combines at work many times over the hours.

The topography looks a lot like Alberta. I was just there this summer so the memories are fresh. You can't see the blur of the Rockies in the distance like you can in Alberta, but otherwise it's very similar: flat prairie farmland. In both places you can look east or west and see the weather miles and miles away. You can be enjoying a perfect blue sky, but over there dark clouds are shooting down rain. Or it's gloomy where you are but on the distant horizon, God rays of light zip from the clouds.

What struck me as different, though, were the towns caught between the prairie. There's a feeling of decay in these American towns that you don't sense in Alberta. On our journey we saw abandoned buildings, empty warehouses, falling-down wood homes. Other parts of town are doing okay--there's a Hardy's or an Arby's. A Domino's, maybe. The used car lot(s), the auto parts place, the muffler repair shop, the farm supply store. In Washington Junction we saw a couple of smoke stacks that indicated some manufacturing still happening there. But it does make you wonder what all the people in these towns do and how they make it through the year. They can't all be farmers...

We arrived, finally, at our destination: Muscatine, Iowa, population somewhere around 23,000. Situated right on the Mississippi, it, too, feels like a place out of time. We passed through the downtown and the brick facades look like a Hollywood set for a movie set in 19th century. Not much different from the picture, but with cars instead of carriages. No awnings, either. Today, some stores are occupied and thriving, but not all.

Much of the older homes are built on a hill overlooking the river--what's now called the historic district. I had the sense that this is where the well-to-do lived, while the working folks lived on the flat. Now, I'm told, everyone lives cheek to jowl whether professional or executive or chicken factory workers.

I'm staying in a brick home built in the early 1880s. There's a front stairway for the family and a back stairway for the servants. The back stairway leads to the attic where there's a single room with a door. Was the cook a day worker? Did the housekeeper get the room? Were there scullery maids living under the eaves? I won't say the house is haunted, but there's a feeling of past lives here.

Looking out over the river, the whole town feels like a 19th century manufacturing center. I could imagine it, too. The factories close to the river. Gristmills, sawmills, railroads, and then Muscatine's claim to fame: the button factory, which manufactured pearl buttons from clam shells found in the Mississippi. I can see the workers making their way to these industrial centers, the women trailing their long skirts, the men in their caps and serviceable boots. And the judges, the factory owners, their wives and children, high up on the hill.

Mark Twain worked for the Muscatine Journal, which was partly owned by his brother, Orion. Did he live on the hill or on the flat? I have my suspicions, but we'll see. And as soon as I find out, I'll let you know. I'm off to explore.



*If this bothers you, see "Correction" posted 11-25-08. If you noticed nothing untoward, you're as clueless as me when it comes to cows, and don't need to rush off.